A Man Has Got To Eat
by Azulsky
Summary: Or A Few Times Dean Winchester Had an Actual Job.


A/N: I hope you enjoy this. There are no spoilers in this fic.

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1.

Dean's never mentioned the time in his life when he worked in a lab. He didn't think Sam needed to know Dean used two pairs of latex gloves to make it easier to move from one task to another without having to worry about contamination. Or about the protective eyewear that was sometimes needed, and how Dean would Sharpie doodles on them whenever he was bored.

It was when Dean was low on income that he tried his hands at being a lab assistant. Dad wasn't around for this one, off on some hunt on the other side of the states. It was easier to forge the resume than any of the credit cards.

The only evidence of this job was the rolled up lab coat in the trunk of the car.

2.

The first time he walked into the building wasn't too bad, though suits bothered him and he had to wear one now. After all, what kind of job was it when you were afraid to get your clothes dirty? He preferred his looser fitting jeans to the dress slacks, and the loafers felt like knives on his feet. Dean wondered if anyone would really notice if he came in the next day wearing construction boots; judging by the look of the hawk eyed secretary across the way from his desk, most definitely.

Monotonous: a word not often used by one Dean Winchester. But then again, it wasn't often you'd find him counting numbers.

Dean knew the system, what numbers really mattered. Any John Doe could apply to a credit card with a different name, but it took real finesse to cheat the actual numbers. He, of course, didn't tell them in his resume about his skills in system cheating. This was business, it was a given.

3.

Dean was chasing tail again. She was such a tease, hiding behind the counter only to show just a little bit of skin, grinning up at him. He sighed as he approached quietly; this one was way too hard to catch. Golden hair streaked past him as she moved toward the door. Seamlessly, he altered his course, intercepting her before she could even smell the outside air. Dean stooped to place a calming caress down her back.

"Come on baby, don't be like that." She stuck her tongue out, planting herself firmly into the ground. It only took Dean a moment, tapping his foot impatiently, before he crouched low and pulled her up into his arms. He carried her across the room and plopped her down into a bath, soap suds settled from her prior escape attempts were agitated once again as Dean continued his work.

"What do they feed you, girl? Whole cows?" He asked as he popped his back after lifting her over the lip of the tub. "I'm strong, but God Damn…" Not waiting for an answer he continued to brush the soapy water through her golden hair, making sure to keep it from tangling.

"Ya know, your hair is pretty much dead on like Sammy's. That's my brother." Dean spoke aloud, working in lather, "He's off frolicking like a good pup." She whimpers under his hands. "You have any pups?" He could tell she could have. Despite the watery circumstances she was in, her tail wagged. Dean smirked. "Yeah, then you'd know about how they like to teethe." Dean was rinsing the last of the soap out now, getting ready to dry her off. "Get their paws and teeth into everything before they settle down." Moving her head toward the towel, eyeing it, she whined. Dean nodded, "Almost done."

Pulling the cover on the drain, he pulled himself up, bracing a hand on her back to keep her from jumping out, and reached for the dry towel on the rack to the right of the bath.

"It's not that bad, honey, you just gotta know that it's going to end."

4.

Dean had this certain look about him, nothing scary or treacherous, just voracious. It was in the way he watched crowds of people, calculating their movement and cutting through them with little effort. Mike always said it was as if Dean searched for a point in the storm and swam to it in a straight line.

Mike was the first guy to admit he couldn't take Dean and was humble about it. The boy was sitting alone at a table in a bar, enjoying the silence around him, when some drunk started yelling something about the boy looking at him the wrong way. In a rage, the drunk took a swing, catching the boy in the chin hard. Everyone watched with wary eyes as the boy took down the drunk; Mike watched, seeing how the boy restrained himself. He knew the boy wasn't going attack unless provoked.

It was a good trait for the industry. Most of the young men Mike came across in his business had something to prove. Every punch and every hit they threw had their whole weight behind it, but with this boy, it was like he was trying to catch a feather. He used no more force than needed.

Mike felt it prudent to give the boy his card, which was a fancy way of saying his name and phone number on the back of a bar napkin. Finishing off his drink, Mike wondered if this boy, Dean he said his name was, would ever call about the job. Most of them didn't, figuring Mike's a crazy loon who has had himself one too many. No one offers you that kind of gig in a bar.

Just a shade under two weeks later Mike gets a call around ten at night, interrupting his Cooper show, making him a bit tetchy, but he sobered up quick when he heard whose voice it was, and he'd be goddamned, it was the boy from the bar. He was a few states over, but he was looking to make some extra money. Mike could tell that Dean didn't mind traveling, hell, even had his own transportation, which was always the biggest hurdle for the job.

Three days later, Mike's newest security team member showed up with a blacked right eye and stitches peaking out from his hairline, just above his temple. Mike didn't ask about where he landed the prizes, just if the trouble was going to follow him. The boy laughed as if a joke had been said,

"Nope, trouble doesn't follow me."

Mike wondered a lot about the boy over the next few months, as they worked together. Dean started off on crowd control, but as the band took a liking to him, he moved up on stage, protecting the band from crazies in the crowd. He was good; always acted before Mike called him on his earpiece.

About two months into Dean's career on security detail for the band, a fire broke out on stage near Steve the drummer in the middle of a song, which forced him to abandon his set. The fire grew as the rest of the band was rushed backstage. Dean joined the stage crew to put out the fire.

The band wasn't big and neither was the audience; Dean saw every single face in the crowd as he turned toward them. He wiped at his brow with one hand and lowered the fire extinguisher with the other as he counted the crowd, each one of them silent.

More than just Mike's voice was on Dean's earpiece, everyone talked over one another; the fire was out, so Dean paid no attention as headed toward where the band had congregated backstage and patted Steve on the back.

"Dude, when I said to kill out there, I wasn't being literal." The band laughed hesitantly and Dean knew in another minute, they would be making their own jokes. He head back to the stage to check the damage report. The techies gathered that the fire was electrical and unavoidable, with all the older equipment the band currently owned. The fried wires had melted together in a jumble of electronic chaos.

"It's fried to shit, can't make Dorothy run if she ain't got her slippers." A tech named Dan told Dean.

"Dan," Dean sighed, "what the fuck does that mean?"

"Everything's charred, D. We need a whole new system."

Dean throws his gaze over toward the audience,

"They're going to be angry with only half a show," Dean turned his attention on the charred equipment, "lemme have a look."

It did not take Dean long to calculate the situation as FUBAR'd before he headed off to find the band, but Mike intercepted him with,"As crazy as it sounds, they want to keep playing."

Dean shook his head."Equipment's fried, Mike. There's no way."

"Shit. That's about what I figured, but they ain't havin' it. I guess they figure these people got a right to a full show."

"There's no way unless we got ourselves a couple of acoustic guitars."

"There are some in the truck, which is why I'm talkin' to you. Go with the boys while they get their guitars."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Wait, they really are continuing the show? What are you going to do about the drums? And the keyboard?" Dean said tightly, "Even the mikes are fried. How is Max going to get his voice above the band if he doesn't have the mike?"

Mike shook his head. "Hey man, this ain't my idea, but," he smiles, "I ain't fried yet," he walked away, leaving Dean to run a hand through his own hair as he searched his mind for a reason why the band doesn't just leave. They are justified after all.

The crowd was more understanding than most, Dean noted, as he helped the band set up on stage. He was handy, they found out, with instruments. He told them all he used to work in a music store back in some Mississippi town a few years back, could not play for shit but sure has hell knew what all the parts are. The crowd watched as the guitars were tuned, the drum set pulled farther in stage, and the lead singer, Max, sat on the very edge of the stage, close enough to be heard from the first few rows.

It was not under the best circumstances that the band finished their concert, but they managed to pull off a few songs without some of the key instruments. The band used the stage and whatever was around them to complete their songs.

The morning after, the band woke up covered in fire blankets, courtesy of the security team. When the band asked about it, the security team told them they take their job seriously. No one explained how they got the blankets, but for a week the whole security team bought Dean beers. It has been said that the band still travels with fire blankets in case the drummer gets inspired.

Three weeks later Mike was home for once, on a much needed break. He's hitting the road again early the next morning, and wanted to enjoy what little time he had left with his precious television. He was finishing up his favorite show when he got the call.

"You know that thing I said about trouble? Well, I lied." It was the last time Mike ever heard from the kid.

5.

So it happened totally on accident. Dean didn't mean to, really, all he had wanted was to find a few bucks, but somehow he ended up with a nine to five job working construction. It suited him just fine, the work kept him in shape. The men kept his sense of humor running, and best of all: he got to make cat calls from scaffolding. The men he worked with said they never did such things; it was what they called a "stereotype". Dean kept calling anyway, not like it mattered, the calls were muffled by machinery. He was good with that stuff, too good, some of the more self conscious men would say. He pulled his weight, drank his weight, and made damn sure that he got his weight in respect at the end of the day.

Ol' Randy, they called him, he was the man everyone sucked up to or treated like God. He had been working sites since he was twelve, under his uncle's watchful eye. In the first two weeks he worked, he lost the top of his right ring finger. He's never told anyone where it went. He's about fifty now, but nobody asks for exact numbers. Either way, he's worked more in his life than any of the other boys. He's earned his God Damn right to look mean and scary, it's a privilege he doesn't intentionally use. Most don't know it, but Ol' Randy is quite soft spoken, it's just that everyone hears him when something goes wrong, so he's always yelling to get out of the way, or to fix wait got broke. He never yelled at Dean. It took some time but Dean recognized in the man something akin to something he knew in the past.

One day, about two months into the job, one of the boys came late, carrying himself like he'd dropped a ton of the steel rebar on his foot. He was capable, everyone knew that.

"You should talk to Ol' Randy."

It is meant as a scare tactic. Those that come to work drunk or faking sick went to see Ol' Randy and he'd help them along. Most quit two days after coming to work drunk. It is when you see Ol' Randy with the God's honest truth; he is as helpful as a tour guide in a dark labyrinth, who can see in the dark.

The man was named Josh, and well, he got sent to good Ol' Randy, and that's when Dean was called up to join in on the proceedings in that little mobile office. He came in with dust, dirt, and pain etched into his face. Things had gone wrong earlier and now he was fixing some of the boys' mistakes. Ol' Randy nodded at Dean when he came in, delegating his, and Dean's, attention onto Josh.

"Josh here's got a problem. Seems like he doesn't quite know how the pipes in his walls manage to find their way out of his walls. At their own accord." Randy motioned toward Josh's now un-booted foot. The flesh was raw, red, and inflamed, clearly broken. Dean didn't pay attention to that. "Josh, tell Dean what you told me." Josh haggard out a breath.

"It's not funny. Look I didn't mean to soun-"

"Josh, just tell Dean," Randy looked at Josh, "Please."

Josh cast his eyes down on his foot. Dean wondered how much of a struggle there had been when he tried to get the sock over that angry skin.

"I was asleep. I sleep like the dead, when you wake me up, you gotta literally pull me out of bed before I can manage a coherent thought." He sighed, "I woke up. Just like that, no nothin' just up and attem'. It took a while for me to realize something _did_ wake me. The floor boards were shaking, somethin' was moving around in my living room, so I go out there, right?" He laughs helplessly, "My walls are destroying themselves, tearing themselves apart, wood, stucco, support beams, fuck, even the insulation was flying around like someone was having a teardown party." Gesturing toward his foot, Josh continues, "that's how I got this. Fucking beam from my ceiling came down, barely escaped it….Thank God I don't got dogs." He trails off, quieting down, figuring there wasn't much more to tell. Dean remained silent, already processing what needed to be done. He hadn't had a gig in a while, not since he'd been working. Sam always figured Dean never held jobs down. He did thought, every so often, when everything became just a bit too hectic, when everything felt like he couldn't control it. He'd stop. Find some small place and just work. Dean worked as hard as he did with everything else.

He switched gears flawlessly, calculating. Randy cut the silence.

"You know why I called you in here, boy?" Dean only looked the man in the eye; Randy nodded wordlessly then raised his right hand, letting Dean and Josh see his missing finger, "I figure neither of you got the correct story about this yet. From what I hear, most of them have to do with rescuing a man from a saw."

"The one I heard had something to do with rebar." Chipped in Dean.

"Rebar, oh yeah, it was falling, right? And it caught my hand…I almost wish that were the case. Truth of the matter was, two weeks into working my first site things started going wrong. Men were getting killed, machinery was malfunctioning, and plans were all messed up. It went on like that for quite a bit until this man came through. Said he wasn't looking for no work or nothin', just came by the sites and scoped. Three days he did that, and on the last day he came bearing a loaded shotgun. This was at night. No one was supposed to be on site, but I had to finish up some grunt work before the new shift so I was privileged enough to see him. See, this man, he didn't come by to find work because he already had a job. It was in his gun. This," Randy shook his hand, "is the least of what I could have lost. Thanks to that man, I am walking around with a head on my shoulders." He placed his hand back down on the wooden desk, shifting a few cover letters with it. "I'm not a self possessed man, but I like to think of myself as being keen on knowing a person. Dean, you strike me to be of the same mold as that man that saved my life once. Am I wrong to think you'd be able to save Josh's?"

Dean didn't smirk, only stared,

"I'm not sure if I'm the same mold, Randy, but I certainly know the brand."

"So I was not wrong in assuming you'd help."

"Helping is sorta my gig."


End file.
